


Turn Around, Stick It Out

by betp



Series: From Tumblr [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, this fic gives a whole new meaning to 'crack'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 20:41:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/777776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betp/pseuds/betp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seriously, are those moon pants? 'Cause that ass is out of this <i>world.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Turn Around, Stick It Out

**Author's Note:**

>  
> 
> I live to please.

Derek’s ass defies gravity.

It’s all Stiles can think about. Which he can’t help, because despite those jeans Derek wears—Stiles would like to convert to every religion so he can thank every possible deity for those jeans—he only sometimes has occasion to see the heavenly contour of it, the convex creation that haunts Stiles’ filthiest thoughts, this thing that Stiles just wants to _bite_. Stiles has a lot of really vivid fantasies about it.

(Four words: Boxer shorts. Dripping wet.

The last two are descriptors for Stiles’ second most frequent dream version of Derek, not for Stiles, Stiles’ physiological responses to the sight of him notwithstanding.)

Derek’s ass is a _gift_. Dude had a pretty terrible life for a long time, but damn, at least he has that cosmically beautiful ass. _Fuck_.

The ass in question is adorned with the aforementioned Jeans From Heaven And/Or Hell and sort of jutting out into the world because Derek is bent under the hood of the Camaro, doing special Derek things to the engine. Stiles gets ungracefully out of his Jeep and goes over to Derek, sipping at his Slurpee.

“Hey,” he says. “ _God_ , you look good.”

Derek looks grudgingly flattered, as he always does when Stiles compliments him, because if anything Stiles says comes out sounding deeply and vehemently sincere, it’s the shit he says about Derek. (And his ass, which Stiles wants to fuck, but this is not new.) “Thanks,” he returns drily. “You look sunburnt.”

“I might just be blushing at the sight of you. Y’ever think of that?” Stiles offers Derek his Slurpee, and Derek leans over and takes a sip. Then he ducks back under the hood. “What’re you doing.”

“Playing Yahtzee,” Derek replies. Even though he’s not looking at Stiles, Stiles rolls his eyes. The eyerolling is for Stiles’ own benefit. If he doesn’t dispel his sarcasm in a timely fashion, he ends up blowing up. Stiles knows this from experience. Besides, the sheer force of Stiles’ eyerolls can probably be felt without seeing them. “Don’t roll your eyes at me,” Derek tacks on, pointing at Stiles with a dirty metal thingy without looking at him. “You always ask me what I’m doing, and you never understand when I tell you. I don’t know why you ask.”

“Because hearing you talk cars gives me the vapors,” Stiles tells him. It’s kind of true. There are some vapors. “And I wasn’t rolling my eyes.”

“Of course you weren’t.”

“ _Tell_ me, asshole.”

“I’m just changing the oil. Won’t take much longer.”

Stiles stops watching Derek’s forearms work and starts watching his ass again. He just wants to grab it, and be thankful for it. He just wants someone to write an official, notarized letter to. Who can Stiles hold personally and financially responsible for this experience? Who did the thing? “You wanna do something after?” he asks, wry and casual, already making plans in his head. He wants to bend Derek over something—maybe over this car—and eat out this ass. Then he wants to stick his dick in it. So many possibilities—(just _grab_ it, he could just _grab_ it and finger Derek right _now_ )—so little time. Stiles is having an existential crisis over Derek’s ass. Derek doesn’t notice.

“I dunno, maybe later,” he says somewhat gloomily. “Scott’s coming over soon, I don’t know how long that’ll take.”

“Scott’s coming over?” Frowning, Stiles chews his straw. “What for?”

“He called, said he needed to talk to me about something. That usually means he’s going to yell at me.”

Stiles can’t repress a giggle, because Scott yelling at someone. It’s _happened_ before, don’t misinterpret that—it happens occasionally. But typically only to Derek, that’s what’s funny. Derek doesn’t think it’s funny. “Did you do something that would make him yell at you?” asks Stiles.

Derek shrugs, sullen. “I never know what I did until he tells me.”

It is all Stiles can do not to coo at him and kiss his little face. Derek doesn’t deal well with Scott. There’s a lot of pouting and snapping at each other whenever they’re at odds, which is surprisingly often considering how good-natured Scott is. The point is, Derek is cute when he sulks. “You’re cute,” says Stiles, and Derek scowls heatedly.

“We’re probably going to murder each other,” he grumps, irritably wiping at his filthy hands with the hem of his equally filthy tank top.

Clearly Derek needs incentive. Stiles sucks up the last bit of his Slurpee, frowning contemplatively. “How ‘bout this: once you’re done oiling your whatever, I’ll wash your car for you.”

“ _Oiling_ my—you’ll wash my car?” He looks at Stiles like he can’t figure out what part of him makes the least sense. Stiles grins at him.

“Yeah,” he says. “After you’re done, I’ll wash your car for you. Then it’ll be all clean and shiny. And I might get all wet in my white t-shirt, here.” Derek raises his eyebrows. “I’m just saying. _Warning_ you. Because who wants to watch some horny dude get himself all soaking wet on a shiny sports car? Not _me_.”

“Some horny dude,” Derek repeats, smirking.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, and he knows he’s being kind of dopey here, but he can’t help it. “Some pathetic guy who can’t stop thinking about you and your ass.”

Derek leans on the bumper. “Sounds specific.”

“It is,” agrees Stiles, “it really, really is. I want to do so many things to you, and only about two percent of them are legal in public. I want to cart you off to bed and show you the meaning of life.”

“Is that what you call your dick?” Derek deadpans.

Which—ugh. _Ugh_. Stiles should not think Derek is funny, but he _does_ , god help him. Everything about him is just horribly wonderful. Stiles wants equal parts to rub his face on Derek’s like a cat, choke on his cock, and push him off a cliff. Maybe all three. “Ha, ha, _ha_ ,” he says flatly, and Derek looks pleased. Scott’s mom’s car appears on the drive, and Stiles leans in close to Derek. “If you make it through Scott’s lecture,” he tells him, low, so Scott can’t hear, bass creeping into his voice like a promise; “I will _destroy your ass_. I will fuck you so hard you forget Scott ever scolded you.”

Derek stares at him, eyes narrowed. Then he asks, “What about my car.”

“Wherever you want,” returns Stiles, beaming.

Derek grins back, and shuts the hood.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come be with me on [Tumblr](http://detectivebuttcop.tumblr.com/), guys.


End file.
